—I won’t have this talk. Women are forbidden to come here, and I don’t even want to hear the word spoken . . .
—Calm down, Father, I just wanted to know . . .
—We don’t talk about these things in Jezoosalem. Women are all . . . they’re all whores.
We’d never heard him utter such a word. But it was as if a knot had been untied. From then on, for us, the term “whore” became another word to mean “woman.” And on occasions when Aproximado forgot himself and launched forth on the subject of women, my old man would stumble through the house shouting:
—They’re all whores!
For Ntunzi, such strange behaviour was proof of Silvestre Vitalício’s growing insanity. As far as I was concerned, my father was suffering, at the most, from a passing illness. It was this infirmity that had us digging the rock-hard soil to make dry, lifeless wells, right in the middle of winter, precisely when the clouds were at their most barren.
At the end of the day, our father would inspect these skeletal pits, scratched out amid clods of earth and grit. To check the effectiveness of our toil, he would begin his inspection like this: A long rope was attached to Ntunzi’s feet and he was lowered down into the rocky opening. We watched apprehensively, as he was gobbled up by the depths, barely connected to the world of the living. In Silvestre’s hands, the taut rope was the opposite of an umbilical cord. My brother was hoisted back up to the surface, only for us to then go and open up another hole. We would end the day exhausted, covered in sand, our hair matted with dust. Occasionally, I would venture to ask:
—Why are we digging, Father?
—It’s just for God to see. Just for Him to see.
God never did see, for where we were was too remote. Heavenly manna was never going to be poured into the burning pan of those holes. Silvestre wanted to render the Creator’s work ugly, like that jealous husband who deformed his wife’s face so that no one else could enjoy her beauty. His explanation, however, was completely different: the wells were nothing less than traps.
—Traps? To catch which animals?
—They’re other animals, ones that have come from afar. I can already hear them on the prowl near here.
No matter how doubtful we were, we knew we wouldn’t get any further explanations. A vague feeling that something inevitable was imminent came to dominate old Vitalício. The orders we began to get became more and more erratic. For example, under orders from Silvestre, I, my brother and Zachary Kalash began to sweep the footpaths. The verb “to sweep” was only correct in our father’s language. For it was a kind of reverse sweeping: instead of clearing the paths, we spread dirt, twigs, stones and seeds over them. What, in fact, were we doing? In those nascent paths, we were killing any propensity they might have to grow and become roads. And in this way, we stifled any possible destination at birth.
—Why are we wiping out the road, Father?
—I’ve never seen a road that wasn’t sad—he answered without taking his eyes from the wicker that he was plaiting to make a basket.
And as my brother wouldn’t give up, so demonstrating his dissatisfaction with the answer, my father elaborated his argument. We could see very well what the road brought with it.
—It brings Uncle Aproximado and our provisions.
Silvestre pretended not to hear and continued impassively:
—Waiting. That’s what the road brings. And it’s waiting that makes us grow old.
So we went back to being imprisoned under barren clouds and aged skies. In spite of our solitude, we couldn’t complain of having nothing to do. Our daily lives were regulated from sunrise to sunset.
The cycles of light and of the day were a serious matter in a world where the idea of a calendar had been lost. Every morning, our old man would inspect our eyes, peering closely into our pupils. He wanted to make sure we had witnessed the sunrise. This was the first duty of living creatures: to watch the creator’s star emerge. By the light preserved in our eyes, Silvestre Vitalício knew when we were lying and when we had allowed ourselves too much time between the sheets.
—That pupil’s full of night.
At the end of the day, we had other obligations that were equally inviolate. When we came to say good night, Silvestre would ask:
—Have you hugged the earth, son?
—Yes, Father.
—Both arms open on the earth?
—A hug like the one Father taught us to give.
—Well, go to bed then.
As a rule, he retired early, and didn’t stay up after sunset. We would accompany him to his room and line up while he settled himself in his bed. Then, with a vague gesture, he would say in a husky voice:
—You can go now. I’ve already started to leave my body.
The next moment, he was asleep. That was when our home-made miracle would occur: candles would light up all by themselves in every corner of the house. Later, when I was already in bed, I would hear Ntunzi blowing firmly, ushering in the kingdom of the owls and of nightmares. From time to time, I would see my brother sleepwalking, exclaiming in a voice that wasn’t his own:
—Mateus Ventura, you’re going to burn in the depths of hell!
Even when he was asleep, my elder brother had to contest paternal authority. The name, Mateus Ventura, was one of the unmentionable secrets of Jezoosalem. In fact, Silvestre Vitalício had once had another name. Before, he had been called Ventura. When we moved to Jezoosalem, my father bestowed new names on us. Having been re-baptized, we were born anew. And we became even more deprived of a past.
The change in names was not a decision that was taken lightly. Silvestre prepared a ritual with due pomp and circumstance. As soon as the sun set, Zachary started to beat a drum and to recite, at the top of his voice, some impenetrable litany. Uncle, my brother and I gathered in the little square. There we stood, in silence, awaiting an explanation for why we had been summoned. That was when Silvestre Vitalício entered the square, wrapped in a sheet. He carried a piece of wood, and advanced towards the crucifix with the air of a prophet. He stuck the wood in the soil, and we could then see that it was a sign, upon which a name had been carved in bas-relief. Spreading his arms wide, my father proclaimed:
—This is the last surviving country and it’s going to be called Jezoosalem.
Thereupon, he asked Zachary to bring him a can of water. He sprinkled a few drops on the ground, but then thought better of it. He didn’t want to give the dead anything to drink. He scratched the earth with his foot until all vestiges had been erased. Having remedied his lapse, he announced in a solemn voice:
—Let us now proceed to the de-baptism ceremony.
And so we were each called forward in turn as follows: Orlando Macara (our dear Uncle Godmother) became Uncle Aproximado. My elder brother, Olindo Ventura, was transformed into Ntunzi. The assistant, Ernie Scrap, was renamed Zachary Kalash. And Mateus Ventura, my tormented progenitor, transformed himself into Silvestre Vitalício. I was the only one who kept the same name: Mwanito.
—This one is still being born—was how my father justified my keeping the same name.
I had various belly buttons, I had been born countless times, all of them in Jezoosalem, Silvestre revealed in a loud voice. And it would be in Jezoosalem that my final birth would be achieved. The world we had fled, the land of Over There, was so sad that one never wanted to be born.
—I’ve never yet known anyone who was born for the pure joy of it. Maybe Zachary here . . .
Kalash himself was the only one who laughed. And it was to be the selfsame Zachary who, by higher appointment, would officially register our new names.
—Register the inhabitants in the population census, fill everything in on this piece of wood—Father ordered, handing him an old hunting knife.
Zachary positioned himself hesitantly, sitting so that the wood was between his legs, and took a while to begin the register, twiddling the knife from finger to finger and from hand to hand:
—Sorry, Vitalício. Is it register or
rigester?
—Write down what I’m going to dictate.
Zachary Kalash sculpted the letters with great care in bas-relief, as if each were a wound in a living body. Then, after a while, he stopped cutting:
—Vitalício, with a small “v”?
At this moment Uncle Aproximado interrupted the ceremony and asked Silvestre, if he was being serious, to at least honour his ancestors by naming his sons after them. It had always been like that, from generation to generation.
—Placate our grandparents and give the boys their names. Protect the children.
—If there’s no past, there are no ancestors.
Aproximado left the ceremony, aggrieved. Ntunzi followed Uncle, leaving me without knowing what to do. The only one left was the soldier, sitting at my feet, and gazing up at the heavens in search of a solution to his orthographic uncertainties. Silvestre, full of pageantry, loosened the sheet round his neck and declared:
—We are five people, but there are only four demons. You—he pointed at me —are missing a demon. That’s why you don’t need any name . . . for you, this is sufficient: boy, little lad, Mwanito.
It was a moonlit night, and it was hard to get to sleep. My father’s recent words on my incomplete birth echoed within me. And it occurred to me that I was to blame for my own orphanhood. My mother had died not because she had ceased to live, but because she had separated her body from mine. Every birth is an exclusion, a mutilation. If I had my way, I’d still be part of her body, and we would be bathed by the same blood. They talk of “parturition.” Well, it would be more correct to talk of “departurition.” I wanted to make amends for my departure.
The war robbed us of memories and hopes. But strangely enough it was the war that taught me to read words. Let me explain: the first letters I learnt were the ones I deciphered on the labels that were stuck on the crates of weapons. Zachary Kalash’s room, at the rear of the camp, was a real arsenal. The “Minister of War” was what Father called him. When we arrived at Jezoosalem, arms and munitions were already stored there. Zachary chose to install himself among them. And it was in that very hut that the soldier surprised me deciphering the labels on the containers.
—That’s not for reading, laddie—the old soldier scolded me.
—Not for reading? But they look like letters . . .
—They look like them, but they’re not. That’s Russian, and not even Russians know how to read the Russian language . . .
Zachary hastily tore up the labels. Then, he handed me some others that he took from a drawer, and that he said were the translation of the Russian originals, done by the Ministry of Defence.
—You just read these papers that are in pure Portuguese.
—Teach me to read, Zaca.
—If you want to learn, then learn by yourself.
Learn by myself? Impossible. But more impossible still was to hope that Zachary might teach me anything at all. He knew my father’s orders. In Jezoosalem, no books were admitted, or notebooks, or anything at all associated with writing.
—Well then, I’ll teach you to read.
That’s what Ntunzi said later. I declined. It was too risky. My brother had already shown me how to see the other side of the world in the river. I didn’t want to think about how old Silvestre would react if he came to know of his first-born’s transgressions.
—I’ll teach you to read—he repeated emphatically.
So that was how I began my first lessons. Some learn with spelling books, in classrooms. I began by spelling out the weapons of war. My first school was an ammunition dump. Classes were held in the semi-darkness of a storage shed, during the long periods when Zachary was out, shooting in the bush.
I was already putting words together, weaving sentences and paragraphs. I very quickly realized that, instead of reading, I had a tendency to intone, as if I were in front of a musical score. I didn’t read, but sang, thus magnifying my disobedience.
—Aren’t you scared we’ll get caught, Ntunzi?
—You should be scared of not knowing anything. After reading, I’m going to teach you how to write.
It wasn’t long before we began clandestine writing lessons. Scribbling in the sand of the yard with a little piece of kindling wood, I was fascinated, and felt the world being reborn, like the savannah after the rains. I gradually came to understand Silvestre’s prohibitions: writing was a bridge between past and future times, times that had never existed in me.
—Is this my name?
—Yes. M-w-a-n-i-t-o, that’s what’s written. Can’t you read it?
I never told Ntunzi, but at the time, I had the impression that I wasn’t learning with him. My real teacher was Dordalma. The more I deciphered the words, the more my mother, in my dreams, gained physical and vocal expression. The river made me see the other side of the world. Writing returned my mother’s lost face to me.
On Aproximado’s next visit, Ntunzi stole the pencil he used to note down our orders for provisions. My brother solemnly twirled the pencil with the tips of his fingers and told me:
—Hide it well. This is your weapon.
—So where shall I write? Do I write on the ground?—I asked, in a whisper.
Ntunzi replied that he’d already given the matter some thought. And he walked off. Not long after, he reappeared with a pack of cards.
—This will be your school notebook. If the old man appears, we’ll pretend we’re having a game.
—Write on a pack of cards?
—What other paper is there round here?
—But with the pack we use to play?
—Precisely for that reason: Father will never suspect. We already cheat at cards. Now, we’ll cheat at life.
So that’s how I began my first diary. It was also how aces, jacks, queens, kings, deuces and the seven of hearts began to share my secrets. My minute scrawl filled hearts, clubs, diamonds and spades. Into those fifty-two little squares of paper, I poured a childhood of vexations, hopes and confessions. In my games with Ntunzi, I was always the loser. But I lost myself in my games with writing.
Every night, after my jottings, I would wrap the pack of cards up and bury it in the back yard. I would return to my room and gaze enviously at Ntunzi’s face as he slept. I had already learnt to glimpse the liquid lights of the river, and I already knew how to travel across written letters as if each one were an endless highway. But I still needed to know how to dream and to remember: I wanted that boat that took Ntunzi to the arms of our dead mother. On one occasion, my anger overflowed:
—Father says it’s a lie, he says you don’t dream about our mother.
Ntunzi looked at me with pity, as if I were disabled and that my organ for dreaming had been damaged.
—Do you want to dream? You’re going to have to pray, little brother.
—Pray? Don’t you know that Father . . .
—Forget Father. And I said it’s if you want to dream.
—But I’ve never prayed. I don’t even know how it’s done . . .
—Give me one of the cards, and I’ll write a prayer on it for you to learn by heart. Then, you’ll start dreaming, just you see.
I dug up the pack and handed him an ace of diamonds. He would have space enough around the red lozenge to scribble the sacred words.
—No, not that one. You’d better give me a queen. It’s because it’s a prayer to Our Lady.
I guarded that card as if it were the most precious thing I would ever possess in my life. When I knelt down by my bed, my heart would stumble over that little prayer. Until, one day, the soldier Zachary surprised me as I was mouthing the litany.
—Are you singing, Mwanito?
—No, Zaca, it’s nothing. It’s Russian. I learnt the labels that were left.
I didn’t have a leg to stand on with my lie. Zachary, of course, was spying on us under orders from Silvestre. We were immediately summoned before him. My father already had his charges prepared against Ntunzi:
—It was you who taught your litt
le brother.
Foreseeing violence, I rushed forward to defend my brother:
—I learnt it without Ntunzi knowing.
—No one prays here!
—But Father, what’s so bad about it?—Ntunzi asked.
—To pray is to summon visitors.
—But what visitors, if there’s no one else in the world?
—There’s Uncle . . .—I improvised a correction.
—Shut up, who told you to talk?—my brother shouted.
Old Silvestre smiled, pleased at his elder son’s desperate behaviour. He didn’t have to intervene, his son was receiving his punishment in another way. Ntunzi noted his father’s satisfaction and took a deep breath in order to control himself. His tone was more measured by the time he spoke again:
—What visitors from outside could we have? Explain it to us, Father.
—There are visitors we can have without even being aware of it. They’re angels and demons who turn up without so much as a by your leave . . .
—Angels or demons?
—Angels or demons, there’s no difference between them. The difference lies in us.
Silvestre’s raised arm left no room for doubt: the conversation had exceeded its limits. It was made clear that there was to be no more praying, ever. And that was it, period, there was only one resolution and that was irrefutable.
—And you!—my father proclaimed, pointing at me: —I don’t want to hear you crying ever again.
—When did I ever cry, Father?
—Just now, you were snivelling.
And just as he was leaving, Ntunzi showed that he wanted to have the last word. Before Silvestre’s astonished gaze, he asked:
—No praying or crying?
—Crying or praying, it’s all the same thing.
The following night, I was woken by the roar of lions. They were nearby, maybe they were even prowling round the corral. In the darkness of the room, I hugged myself to try and get to sleep. Ntunzi was dead to the world while I was unable to curb my fear, and went to find shelter under my father’s bed. In that clandestine intimacy, flat out on the cold floor, I was lulled to sleep by his snores. But not long afterwards, I was discovered and expelled angrily.